


Gestalt

by stardust_made



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Love, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-28
Updated: 2012-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-30 06:10:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/328647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/pseuds/stardust_made
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Sherlock's birthday. John's present for him is simply unfathomable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gestalt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [disastrolabe](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=disastrolabe).



  
Metal and glass continue to encroach upon the old docks but Sherlock’s eye is still drawn to the glistening waters. He’s really beginning to appreciate the elevated perspective of the DLR track. It allows him to see better the character of the quays—an old city’s waterways, refusing to be appropriated by some of the prime examples of twenty-first century London building. The setting winter sun plays over natural- and manmade surfaces alike, and makes Sherlock squint. He barely has a moment to spot a couple of old-fashioned boats, accosted near West India Quay’s bridge, when the scenery changes again as the train weaves its way through the urban yet picturesque Docklands area that gave the line its name.  
  
He turns to John. “I still don’t see why we didn’t take a cab,” he says half-heartedly.  
  
John grabs hold of Sherlock’s underarm as the train lurches. His reply is short.  
  
“Thirty-five minutes.”  
  
Sherlock rolls his eyes, but shuffles closer and captures John’s hand in the crook of his elbow.  
  
“And we’re thirty-five pounds ahead, too,” John adds. “That’s probably the next vet’s bill.” His face darkens for a moment. “I really wish we could have taken the dog with us.”  
  
Sherlock squeezes John’s hand where it’s nestled. “Let it be a consolation to you that I still haven’t been able to deduce my present, despite this very prominent clue.”  
  
John brightens up instantly.  
  
It’s been such a thrill to try and figure it out. Sherlock is still torn between his ferocious need to know—part of it is his innate pride, part is impressing John, as always—and some reluctant generosity of spirit. John’s been giddy as a schoolboy with each day that passed and left Sherlock none-the-wiser. “You’ll never get it,” John has said a few times, almost gleeful.  
  
Sherlock has also thought him nervous, though, the way John gets every time there’s a shift in their relationship. Like when he first became aware of the nature of his feelings for Sherlock— _that_ secret was equally mystifying at the time. Then in the few days when he was waiting for a good moment to kiss Sherlock, and then before the first time they had sex...Oh, and before introducing Sherlock to Harry, of course. After which a long period of calm.  
  
It’ll be a year for them soon. Sherlock’s elbow gives John’s hand another squeeze.  
  
What Sherlock has on the gift is this: Mycroft is involved, ugh. Naturally, it was within minutes that Sherlock knew it was also somehow connected to Greenwich. (They still have three stops to go until Sherlock has proof that it does take only thirty-five minutes from Baker Street to Greenwich by public transport.) It has something to do with a place where no pets are allowed. That eliminates the park and the market, as well as most pubs. Of course, Sherlock yelped in horror at the prospect of being dragged to the Royal Observatory or the Planetarium. He caught John checking the weather forecast and the sky—cloudless today—which conjured up terrifying images of educational packs on the Solar System or _The Wonders of the Universe_. But to his credit, John was offended that Sherlock should think him so cruel. “I don’t like wasting my money, either,” he’d added under his breath.  
  
So it’s not much. All in all, they are going to Greenwich, something fairly serious is going to happen about the two of them—the thought gives Sherlock the old butterflies in the stomach—and his present obviously isn’t something material that John could just wrap up and give.  
  
Thirty- _nine_ minutes on the dot and they are going up on the escalators of Cutty Sark DLR station. Sherlock lets John go first and stands behind him as close as possible. The height difference between the steps means that for once John’s taller than Sherlock. His neck is right in front of Sherlock’s nose, just a couple of inches away. Escalators suddenly make travel by public transport a lot more agreeable for Sherlock. He widens his nostrils, craves to press his face to John’s nape. John has just spent half an hour on trains wearing a jacket so a twang of dampness is the new addition to his unique mixture of scents. It’s calling Sherlock to lean in and nuzzle, gently brush the lightest sheen of perspiration with his lips.  
  
He is so glad they’re going home afterwards.  
  
They come out of the station and merriment greets them from everywhere. It’s probably natural since it’s the weekend. Greenwich town centre is small and seems filled with people, but it’s not overwhelming. There are lights coming on already. The sun has settled and January is taking its toll—darkness swiftly consumes the air, but Sherlock has the feeling the evening will only make the town look better.  
  
He follows John into the streets.  
  
They spend the following hour and a half browsing the market, having mulled wine and just enjoying being around each other. John worked right up to Christmas Eve, after which they had a case, and from then on it’s been people and holiday _cheer_ nonstop. It’s still odd for Sherlock to have something akin to life as he’s seen others have it. It’s not bothering him, nor is it making him particularly happy—it’s just strange. He didn’t miss that kind of life before, but he was missing John, unknowingly. Sherlock would be content if his life consisted only of his work and John, but sometimes it _is_ nice when there are more people around, too. And occasions, and rituals, other than shooting cocaine every time when—  
  
His thoughts return to John with no effort. By eleven last night Sherlock was growing impatient to have his birthday over. Mrs. Hudson had left around nine-thirty, yet an hour and a half later he and John were still up and running as if it was five in the afternoon. John had wanted to do some tidying up and then he embroiled Sherlock in _thanking_ people via text and replying to messages on John’s blog. At least Sherlock had the presence of mind to just paste _Thank you_ under each message.  
  
Finally, exhausted, they went to bed at midnight and slept for ten hours. Both woke up around the same time, feeling rested and sporting sleep marks on their faces. Sherlock remembers the heated patch on the inside of John’s left thigh; he remembers them kissing and touching each other unhurriedly, and John becoming a patchwork of heat. Then John silently rolling onto his front and tucking a pillow under his pelvis. John’s bottom’s curvature; the red spots on the cheeks from where they’d pressed onto the mattress earlier when Sherlock had still been on top of John, the two of them sliding against each other, rutting gently…  
  
Sherlock removes his right glove and lets his hand absorb the chill of the air, then brushes his curls away from his forehead.  
  
They made love and lay around in bed until midday and the world started righting itself. The time he’s spending with John now has restored its proper balance.  
  
It’s obvious that John is waiting for something—there are a million tell-tale signs, but Sherlock’s given up deducing. He’s feeling woozy and light. They stop by the window of one of the gift shops circling the market. It’s…nice to be here, in a covered market that’s way more intimate than Covent Garden and doesn’t serve as much as a tourists attraction or a circus ring. Greenwich Market is true to its purpose: selling everything, from food and wine, through clothes and jewellery, to handmade soap and paintings. There are a couple of odd exceptions such as the small tarot reading tent, lit in dark orange. When they passed it, there was a young woman inside, with rather striking features, who was very likely lying to the other woman, the one listening in rapture. Sherlock wouldn’t have needed cards to tell her a thing or two, but John dragged him away, elbowing him, and telling him that you weren’t supposed to peek in and stare at people.  
  
Now John is pointing to an umbrella on the gifts shop window, a massive umbrella in psychedelic patterns. They have a quick exchange along the lines of “I was only joking, Sherlock!” and “I wasn’t. _His_ birthday will be upon us in a couple of week’s time.”  
  
They head out to wherever it’s finally time to go next, but stop in a tiny side street leading off the market for John to tie his shoelace right under one of the streetlamps. Sherlock watches the light abolish the silver strands in John’s hair and turn it golden-ginger. The skin on Sherlock’s cheeks begins to feel hyper-sensitive and burns under the touch of his still ungloved fingers. He knows the wine has gone into his head. John straightens with a huff and looks up at Sherlock to say something, then freezes, mouth slightly ajar. His eyes, almost riveted, caress Sherlock’s face; after casting a quick look around, John lifts his bare hand to follow with a real caress along Sherlock’s brow and right cheek. Sherlock freezes, too, and lets himself be petted—as far as he’s concerned, any presents have become unnecessary. John pulls his hand away but he doesn’t move. Sherlock just looks back at him, eyes feeling heavy and hot in his skull.  
  
A small puff of steam escapes John’s mouth as it opens.  
  
“Just look at you,” John says distinctly but softly. Sherlock tilts his head to one side and widens his eyes. John seems to drink him in, then shakes his head, half-incredulous.  
  
“Come on,” he says and smiles brightly.  
  
***  
  
Sherlock is genuinely puzzled for the first time in years. What’s thrown him is the sequence of right deductions that still refuse to coalesce into a conclusion. He thought it was Greenwich—and it is. He thought it was a closed space—and it is. He thought it was the Royal Observatory—and it is. The walk up the hill in the cold evening has cleared his head sufficiently to restore his mental faculties to a good operational level. Thus, he is also able to confirm his deduction that they are going to use a telescope—and they are.  
  
But _why_?  
  
The elderly gentleman who looks more like an honorary butler than a generic public servant leaves them in the hall with the telescope and withdraws, leaving the impression that he’s just bowed, too. The man probably treats this as a revered place. Sherlock is sure that they turned right, instead of left, so that the butler could take them on a completely silent tour through all the rooms and galleries, before arriving at the telescope hall. Sherlock can’t blame the man for his attitude, really. Once it became clear where they were heading John mentioned a few details about the Royal Observatory. It is obviously a remarkable place both historically and in terms of its significance for science. But Sherlock’s concurrence with the butler’s reverence stems from his own feeling. As they walked through the quiet, darkened rooms and corridors of Flamsteed House, their only companions the glints on the surfaces of the ornate old chronometers, sextants and master clocks, Sherlock felt himself hush inwardly and mind his step. No one has said a word from the moment they entered the building. The butler only greeted them with, “We’ve been expecting you. Everything is ready. If you could just follow me.”  
  
The dome is open and the circular room with the big telescope is cold and dimly lit. It pleases Sherlock to find it relatively bare and purposeful. Science should be void of every superfluous detail; its whimsy can be found in those practicing it, in the breathless flight of their imagination that makes them join existing facts and facts alone, until they produce something new entirely: a conclusion or a theory.  
  
As to why he’s here, he still has neither.  
  
John has been watching him and now that Sherlock turns to him he can see the anxiety in John’s posture. He takes his hands out of his coat’s pockets and steps closer to John, raises his eyebrows: _Now what?_  
  
John licks his lips and makes a move to the telescope. He stretches on his toes and puts his eye to the opening, stays perfectly still for five seconds, then steps away.  
  
“Have a look,” he says.  
  
Sherlock, curious and excited, walks to the massive piece of equipment and lowers his eye to it without hesitation. His mind is completely blank as to what he might see.  
  
Just as well. His mind could have never suggested the sight before him, because it is not with his mind that Sherlock figures it out.  
  
Right in the middle of the dazzling background of the stars — God, God, so many of them, he never knew! — there are deep, rich black strands without a single star to mar their perfection. They leap at him, then the beauty of the tapestry behind them claims his pupil again, then the black strikes back.  
  
The black has a big advantage, though, for all its formidable competition. The strands manage to perfectly form two big letters: S and H.  
  
Sherlock lifts his head and stares at John, completely, blissfully speechless.  
  
John shuffles nervously and strains his neck in an unconscious attempt to read Sherlock’s face. Sherlock would very much like to assure him, to tell him not to worry, that Sherlock _understands_ , but he doesn’t quite know how to do that, because he doesn’t quite know how he understands it or what it is that he understands—just that he does. He is afraid that if he released himself from his still frame, the world would start turning again and this moment of perfection would be lost. He is afraid he might cry. So he just continues to stare.  
  
John sniffs and clears his throat. “I thought…Mycroft helped a lot. Having the place closed—I mean opened, just for us. And then with the software. It’s this thing, apparently, that calculates—Erm, the software makes whatever pattern you want…I’m not sure how it’s done, but it’s like a foil, I think, that’s sort of put over the lens, and then you see a pattern…” John’s voice trails off; his face is painfully pale. “In case you’re wondering how it’s done,” he adds.  
  
Sherlock shakes his head decisively and closes the distance to John. His eyes swim and his mind has become a blister of unexpected words, but when the love of your life goes about literally writing your name in the stars…  
  
“John,” Sherlock whispers.

 

**Author's Note:**

> For my fantastic beta, mentor, teacher, and friend [](http://disastrolabe.livejournal.com/profile)[**disastrolabe**](http://disastrolabe.livejournal.com/) with gratitude for the last year. Original entry [over here](http://stardust-made.livejournal.com/44539.html) at my Livejournal. If you feel like dropping me a line, please do so there, but either way I'm grateful to you for just reading. Beta by [](http://thetisonline.livejournal.com/profile)[**thetisonline**](http://thetisonline.livejournal.com/).
> 
> Additional A/N: First of all, apologies if I screwed up the physics of this! Then, more apologies for the piece being a bit self-referential. Some of you might recognize the idea of the foil from my Mycroft/Lestrade story ["Out of the Mouth"](http://stardust-made.livejournal.com/43205.html). And of course, there's the dog connection to ["Finding the Right Christmas Present for Your John"](http://stardust-made.livejournal.com/41005.html).
> 
> You can see and read more about the Royal Observatory, Flamsteed House and the remarkable 28-inch refracting telescope [here](http://www.rmg.co.uk/royal-observatory/flamsteed-house-and-meridian/).


End file.
